Life As a Model
by The Curly Flea
Summary: To him, there is nothing left to fight on for, but life will never be ready to desert him, no matter how much he loathes it. 'Slight Octavius/Jedediah'


**LIFE AS A MODEL**

Memories. We are nothing but memories. Stories and experiences compiled upon one another to form a soul; a human being. They form our personalities, our thoughts – they influence every single move we make. They define what it truly means to be alive.

Since this is the way life is formed, how can one made of plastic live? I have memories, yet they are not mine. I can recall civilisations, armies, enemies and lovers – though have have experienced none through my own touch; my own sight. It is not uncommon to find that nowadays, guilt pools in the pit of my stomach as I stand before my people, commanding them as if it were my destiny.

I have been thrust into someone else's shoes.

I am only the mere model of someone else; someone greater; someone who lived.

This life was forced upon me, the moment I first became aware of my existence, yet until quite recently I had not thought it strange.

This is not my life to live. I know that I am nothing in the shadow of this Earth – simply the shell of a human being who walked this ground millennia ago: a fraud. I am a fraud, much like everything that has been, is, or ever will be cursed to live out their endless nights in this museum. Of course, there are exceptions - the large dinosaur, perhaps. He exists as a skeleton of the past, lacking all but his bones.

I have had life thrust upon me in the form of an artificial miniature trapped in a small, cramped diorama, which is impossible to expand upon. My – I apologise, _his –_ forces are defeated, unmotivated. What do we 'live' for if we cannot fulfil our purpose? This life I am living does not fit in well with my memories yet despite this, I still come to 'life' every night.

At the present time, I am unable to decide whether this is a blessing or a curse. After over half a century of this nightly occurrence, the majority of the time spent enclosed in a glorified box, I feel that I have the right to be troubled.

I have seen night guard after night guard stroll through those doors: young, fresh and alive. They have been everything from nervous to strict to clumsy to downright terrified but in the end, no matter whom they may have descended from, they are destined to abandon us. Leap at the chance of a better life. Find a real job. Get married. Have children. They claim that they will come back to us – see us at the very least. They _loved_ us. Like Larry. If it were not for the potential removal of the exhibits to the museum of Smithsonian, lying in the state of Washington, DC, Larry would not have come back to us – ever.

Why must they lie? Can they not give that much to us?

These people, they are born as children with flesh and blood and bones. They live and cherish their moments alive before slipping into an everlasting slumber.

Birth.

Death.

Great milestones that I shall never personally experience.

The fact of the matter is simple: I am tired of this. This 'life' I live every night; the figures I see; the limited expanse of this lionized cage.

It is simply an oversized box. The museum, that it. I can imagine that being on the small side may help to relieve this aspect somewhat, but there is only so much one can take of passing the same walls and halls on the same horseback each night; wearing the same clothes; waking to the same dreary sight every evening.

It scares me to think that if it were not for Jedediah, I would be lost inside my own mind, driven into a pit of madness by the mediocrity of my existence. He is my lifeline, my single slither of light in a world of guilt and turmoil that simply worsens with every passing minute. It is strange, if one were to consider the fact that we have spent most of our time in each other's company as sworn-enemies, attempting to make the night a living horror in any way we could.

But, then again, I suppose he distracted me from my troubles through his warring too.

He makes my heart flutter, sometimes. Only lightly, though, like the feeble wings of a butterfly on death's doorstep. I should not admit this. This is not my mind and heart to feel with and by even thinking such things I am violating someone; trespassing on the grave of another. This _thing_, it is not myself. I should not even exist.

But his smile, and his carefree attitude – they make me forget. Forget that I am merely made of paper; forget that I shall never escape this petty existence and live a real life.

The figure I have been moulded to represent is not me, nor am I him.

I have never had the chance to travel; to love; to stand in the bright sunlight with my arms spread wide like eagle's wings, without fear of turning to dust.

It is for that reason that I cling to Jedediah, rushing to him without the composure that a born-leader should possess - not that it matters, as, truth be told, I am not one anyway – as soon as the sun dips solemnly below the horizon.

I do not pull myself from his side until the last fading star leaves the warming sky, and even then it take all the effort in the world to walk through that cold, dark, formidable tunnel.

Alone.

I do not know how much longer I can last; how much I can stand this torture.

I sincerely believe that before long even Jedediah, with his wholesome heart and overwhelming eagerness to please, will not be enough to keep me from keening over the edge into a bog of disparity.

And in the place of my dormant mind, who shall remain?

When sanity finally relinquishes its weak grip from my futile existence, will I be granted relief?

I fear not.

Because life will never let go of me.

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